Headmaster Warlock by Lucid Dream Collection
Full Album Audio Visualizer -
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8F6l1vpb2dY
FFO: MORTIIS / OLD NICK / HEXENMEISTER
HEADMASTER WARLOCK
“Psychedelic Necro-Circus from the Fungal Abyss”
From the neon mycelium beneath the rotting floorboards of time, Headmaster Warlock emerges like a bastard jester from a cursed VHS — equal parts corpse-painted prophet, medieval lunatic, and hallucinogenic punchline. Forged in the rusted bowels of an abandoned conservatory turned occult school, this raw black metal/dungeon synth project is a fungal mutation of everything lo-fi, evil, and totally off the rails.
King Death, their debut sonic blasphemy, is the sound of a witches’ coven slipping acid into your communion wine while a cosmic clown juggles severed thoughts in the background. Blending blown-out black metal fury, crumbling cassette textures, circus organ synths, and brain-melting colors scraped from the walls of a moldy mushroom forest, Headmaster Warlock doesn't play songs — it hexes you with them.
At the center is the Warlock himself: part monarch, part buffoon, dancing in cursed pointy shoes beneath the dirty sole of a bored Giantess Goddess. His riffs scratch like unfiled nails on dungeon stone. His lyrics are medieval graffiti scrawled in dying torchlight. His screams sound like a skeleton orgasming through a broken megaphone. And his performances? An unholy vaudeville act with the devil on soundboard.
For fans of raw early 90s black metal tape worship, dungeon synth dungeon crawling, outsider art, and chemically-enhanced Gnostic heresy — Headmaster Warlock is not music. It’s a fungal possession ritual for fools, jesters, and foot-crushed kings.
Tracklist
| 1. | Bound to Mirror Gate | 2:57 |
| 2. | The Bastard Sigil Carved Into My Palms | 2:54 |
| 3. | Fetish Cathedral | 2:31 |
| 4. | Cloaked in Synth Rot and Spite | 2:21 |
Credits
License
All rights reserved.Tags
Born not of womb but of whisper,
where time folds like parchment soaked in wine—
Lucid Dream Collection drips from the mouth of sleeping stars,
a choir of shadows wrapped in velvet riddles.
Was it sung by the moon or screamed by the void?
No soul recalls its first breath,
yet all who listen forget their name.
Follow, fool, and be unmade divine.